Shadow
by Amatista
Summary: Time has passed since the fateful events at the Paris Opera House. Leaving the bowels of solitude, Erik sets out once more, seeking one who calls to his soul. What he finds will summon memories of all he has gained and lost in life...and perhaps peace.
1. Prologue

**A/N: After much debate--and much maturing as a writier--I have decided to make major revisions to this story. It will follow the same general storyline, but I wanted to make it sound better. I have hopes of perhaps publishing this story someday, and I want to make it a quality work. Any and all feedback is greatly needed, appreciated, and welcomed. Please let me know how this is sounding. Please. Thank you to all my readers, faithful and new.**

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"From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I lov'd, _I_ lov'd alone.

_Then_—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev'ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that 'round me roll'd

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass'd me flying by—

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view."

-"Alone," by Edgar Allan Poe

_~Toulouse, France, 1883~_

The smell of mildewed hay mixed with the discarded refuse and trash of weeks of fair visitors was enough to turn a strong man's stomach. But the rain...the sweet, life giving rain was the only comfort that was offered. The cleansing rain, the promise of new life, the rhythmic sounds as each drop played its tune on the roof of what could only be called home. A small cage no bigger than what would hold a large dog.

The little, filth covered girl—sitting amongst the mud, hay and trash—called this her home.

Looking up, she realized she was alone. Light from a nearby post cast deep shadows upon her home. For all the misery that could be found within the small confines, she knew deep down that soon, her quiet paradise would soon be disrupted as the lanes once again filled with people looking for a nights entertainment. She could hear them now: first, a low murmur, which grew louder as the shadows of her tormentors increased in number. She shrank in fear and desperation trying to find the darkest part of her home, some place as to be unseen. There was a sudden bright light that flashed in her eyes and her head swam as she felt the sickly juice run down her face and the stinging pain that followed.

"Make her say something, Papa," a voice demanded. "Make her scream…


	2. Chapter I

**A/N: After much debate--and much maturing as a writier--I have decided to make major revisions to this story. It will follow the same general storyline, but I wanted to make it sound better. I have hopes of perhaps publishing this story someday, and I want to make it a quality work. Any and all feedback is greatly needed, appreciated, and welcomed. Please let me know how this is sounding. Please. Thank you to all my readers, faithful and new.**

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_~Orléans, France, 1884~_

The quiet was a thick, heavy blanket, interrupted only by the steady chirp of crickets. Moments of peace were rare gifts indeed.

"_Muda._" Disruption was inevitable. "_Muda?_"

The girl hoped to remain in the silence longer, but hope was a silly dream.

"_Muda…Muda…_"

Mute…Mute…Yes, that's who she was. She was being summoned. Taking in a slow breath, she felt the protesting ache of wounds and bruises as a result of her expanding ribcage. Thankfully, the day's festivities were done.

"_Muda?_" A worried, familiar insistence.

I'm here, came her exhausted thought.

"_Despiertate, Muda, por favor, despiertate…_"

"Mute?" A strained second voice, one in her native French. "All…right, Mute?"

Eyes opened to the dim light of Forsaken Alley, a section of the carnival reserved for a trio of the oddities. The ones God had forgotten and left behind. She lived within its boundaries. Vision was greeted by the bars of home, ever present around her. Still nighttime; perhaps the youngest hours of morning. Gathering strength, she lifted her head, wobbling slightly.

Across the alley from home, Henri sighed in relief, his chains clinking softly. Dubbed the Gargoyle, Henri suffered from horrendous physical deformations. Legs with pale, bumpy skin were grossly disproportionate to the rest of his body, and a swollen throat caused difficulty with breathing. Monstrous in appearance, and yet his sunken eyes were sympathetic, his words to her gentle. "Thank…goodness." His massive head turned to address Rafeál in Spanish.

"_Gracias a Dios_," he exhaled, whispering phrases she didn't know.

Grabbing the bars, she yanked herself up, pushing through the elevating pain in her back. Never could she sit up to her full height in the cramped space. Blood trickled from cuts in her arms, compliments of rocks that had pierced skin. Digging at the mud, she spread it across the wounds, eventually forcing the bleeding to end.

Rafeál spoke again, Henri translating. "The pain…quite bad to-…tonight?" He gasped out his speech between breaths.

She turned to look at Rafeál, who was close by and trapped in a cage of his own. The Octopus Man from Spain had one normal arm and three undeveloped nubs jutting from his torso. The expression he wore was full of concern. In reply to his question, the girl shook her head "No." Other nights had been worse, in her opinion. When he gave her a nod, the extra appendages twitched involuntarily. Pointing to his face, he said more foreign words.

She looked to Henri for translation. "Cheek," he said, "bleeding. Cheek."

Verified by touching her face, she spread another bandage of mud across the cut. It wasn't unlike him to notice when her blood flowed.

Then something was tossed to her, not at her. "_Comida, Muda; come_."

This she understood, the nightly ritual beginning anew. Within her reach was a half-eaten candied apple, which she snatched from the ground quickly. It was habit to devour food, no matter how covered it was in dirt and wandering ants. What if someone tried to steal it away? Can't spare it, can't spare it. A few more vittles appeared beside her, and they disappeared into home just as rapidly. Later, the pitiful food would strike her stomach like stones in a deep, cold well, but at least it was nourishment. Rafeál munched on a chunk of stale bread; Henri's chains rattled icily as he feasted on what was tossed to him, the only interruption as the three ate. Comfort was achieved in one another's company, undisturbed by others who would sooner spit on them than offer a kind word.

Once in a while, she glanced at them and felt calm. These were her neighbors, her companions since being thrust into their world. God, how long ago had it been? No matter. Time had become oblivious. In fact, she never pondered on her arrival, not wanting to relive the confusion and misery of abandonment. Abandonment followed by cycles of everlasting torture.

The Mysterious Mute; that had become her moniker. It was a disability acquired at an early age, when fever had seeped into her throat and destroyed the young vocal cords. Not her fault, she used to be told. But such sentiments had faded for her. For…Mute. Once, she'd had a name, but it had been buried deeply alongside her happiness.

At the very least, she hadn't been alone in despair. Unable to verbally communicate, Henri and Rafeál affectionately called her Mute. It didn't occur to her to mind, not from them. They actually _talked_ to her, and were not offended by her silence. While unable to talk back, she would always lock eyes with them as they spoke, indicating that she was listening, appreciating their voices. They watch over her, making sure her suffering was not overlooked. An undoubtedly reassuring thought, despite the physical horrors she faced. Despite the horrors they, too, faced. Through the dire times, they had each other.

Darkness of the night sky began to be disturbed by a dull glow, evidence of approaching dawn. Long after eating their scraps, the two men found positions in order to take rest. The girl lay curled on the dank hay, snug against the side of home closest to Rafeál. With any luck, they would all sleep through most of the day. Skinny fingers wrapped around cold metal bars like twisting claws, and she prayed for sleep to overtake the senses. Mercifully, it finally came, a freedom defying the barriers of home.


	3. Chapter II

Muffled grunts of pain were not enough to wake her, but the metallic _clang_ near her head was. The loudness tore her from sleep and, ignoring the pain of her body, reflexively scrambled to a far corner of home.

"_Svegliati!_ Time to rise from dead, Mute," Signor Vesconi spat in broken French.

The bars of home continued to vibrate from being struck by his thick cane. She grasped them to keep from shuddering herself, back turned to the source of ridiculing laughter.

"Stop cowering, worm," he muttered indifferently, but she remained huddled in the corner, keeping her eyes averted.

Until the grunts and foreign protests regained her attention. She looked to Rafeál, and her stomach shrank back to her spine. Oh God, no…He was being beaten by two handlers, curled pitifully on the ground as he was kicked and pummeled with large sticks. Her own soreness was forgotten as he writhed, shielding himself uselessly with his one arm. Despite how often it occurred, it wasn't easy to watch. For Rafeál's sake, though, she did. She used to cry, but her tears only upset him further. And so, instead, she watched. Fingers tightened on the bars with every blow he received. Then there was a nearby clink of chains. Across the alley, Henri watched as well. At least the Spaniard wouldn't suffer alone: theirs was the pain of being helpless to protect him. When the handlers finally finished, they dragged the limp body towards the end of the alley, where the girl expected them to go.

A second strike against the bars, this one barely missing her fingers. "Out now, Mute," Vesconi grunted as he unlocked the cage door. "_Out_."

Scrambling forth on hands and knees, she was seized by the collar of her old shirt, but there wasn't a struggle. He held her there while exchanging Italian words with another carnival attendant. Only then did she peek at her captor. At over six feet tall, Julian Vesconi was a skinny spider of a man, and the wine he always reeked of made her nauseous. Dark braided hair and a face colored by years of travel left him looking worn, but intimidating. His appearance reminded her of pirates she'd heard of in fanciful tales. Appropriately, she was one of his treasures. Nothing more than his possession since being brought to the carnival, and oh, how she _hated_ him. .Demon of her mind. Those were the labels he deserved. Even now, old bruises and scars inflicted by him tingled in his presence.

With a word of finality, Vesconi dismissed the attendant and heaved the girl forward. "Away to it, Mute." Like a cat on all fours, she scampered to the end of the alley, focused on Rafeál's unmoving form, now chained to a solid metal post. Although she was unrestrained, the thought of escape didn't enter her mind. The others needed her too much. Vesconi followed, rolling a cigarette as he stepped.

The girl tended to Rafeál, scooping handfuls of icy water from a nearby pail and bringing them to his lips. Despite his bruised and bloodied face, the girl nursed her companion with utmost care, giving him what minimal aid she could. Another attempt was made at forcing water in, which caused him to choke. She allowed the coughing before trying again, and it finally went down smoothly. This continued a few more times until he began panting, exhausted from his efforts. Touching a damp hand to his forehead, she waited for him to calm. He continued to wheeze in discomfort, but seemed aware of who was beside him.

"_Gracias, Muda_," he whispered, then let his head roll to the side.

The girl released a breath of her own, remaining crouched over his head. The handlers were brutes when they wanted to be, and there was little she could do to ward them off. Not unless she wanted to incur the wrath of Vesconi's favorite toy again, the one always hidden beneath his jacket. The memory sent a shudder through her and any thoughts of disobedience vanished. But, she could watch over him here, feel as though she was protecting him, even if only for a short period. Do unto him as he tried to do for her every night.

The soft tinkering of chains reached her ears as Henri hobbled slowly to them, then awkwardly knelt next to the girl. As with Rafeál, she cupped water in her hands and offered it to the massive misshapen man, who couldn't bend down without great difficulty. Standing as tall as she could on aching legs, she felt his lips press against her palm as he drank.

When his thirst subsided, he stammered "Thank…you," and settled fully on the ground.

For several minutes, she washed Rafeál's wounds with water, covering the worst of them with mud dressings. After satisfying her own thirst, she scrubbed at her dirty arms, but gave up when the biting chill became unbearable. Arms wrapped tightly about her knees, she sighed quietly, wondering how many hours they had until nightfall. She remained close to the Spaniard while he slept, hoping his sleep was not troubled.

All the while, Vesconi sat on a nearby rock, taking drags on the cigarette. His presence would keep the Forsaken occupants at bay. The girl studied him. Eyes stared off into the distance, not focused on anything in particular. Just staring. Long face and bloodshot eyes hid the darkness of his mind, carefully restrained by the soothing effects of curling, fragrant smoke. Thankfully, his mood seemed controlled today, but who knew how long until the wine seeped into his mind again? That uncertainty was what she feared most.

Looking about the grounds, she saw occasional passers-by, other attendants and gypsies from different parts of the fair. Burly men carried ropes, tents and crates to various locations; exotic women practiced dance techniques with their young and equally beautiful daughters, training them in arts of seduction; a few arguments broke out over money matters; laughter arose from the tents during conversation. Life went on all around them as it normally did. Sometimes, it was strange to hear how quiet it was compared to the evenings, but it was also a welcome change. These individuals at least didn't pelt her with hard fruit. The majority of them were familiar with the Forsaken trio and seemed unconcerned with Henri and Rafeál's deformities, but they weren't acknowledged as long as Vesconi was near. He'd made it clear that they belonged to him.

Henri shifted and settled again. "Mute?"

She sighed deeply, tilting toward him and resting a shoulder against his gray knee. Hopelessly, she willed the sunset not come.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Day's transition into night brought music, merriment, countless voices and blazing torchlight to the carnival. It had come to life, the perfect escape from day-to-day life for those who dwelled in cities.

However, merriment was not to be shared with the exhibits of Forsaken Alley.

"My turn! Look out!" A patron cried, throwing an orange at the small cage.

Pain. The girl saw the color red flash behind her eyes each time an object struck. Everyone laughed mercilessly. Eyes. All around her, eyes mocked her, laughed viciously, shot insults, made her feel so, so small. Cowering in a far corner, she listened as the taunts stabbed her ears. More objects flew at her…three times…four…and left stinging marks. Some felt like stones.

"Oh, come now," the patron yelled, "scream, you little varmint!"

Another laugh, much louder than the crowd. "Perhaps another try, _monsieur_," Vesconi suggested, his painted face terrifyingly enticing. "Perhaps kiss to unlock Devil's grip."

The man eagerly paid Vesconi. Opening the cage, the girl was dragged out and held up by the shoulders. She always dreaded this, wincing as the man's lips crushed down on her bruised, reluctant ones. The overwhelming stench of whiskey made her senses burn. Others around him cheered, encouraging his efforts and chanting "_Scream! Scream! Scream!_" When it was clear that she would elicit no sound, she was dropped.

"Alas, _monsieur_, yours not meant to break spell," Vesoni chortled as the girl regained the breath that had been knocked out of her. The man shrugged to his friends, who continued to applaud him. Several coins were tossed to the ground.

As Vesconi bent to gather his earnings, the girl crawled back into home and sought the far corner again, shuddering as she settled her forehead against cold bars. Horrified screams from across the alley caught her ears as three young ladies ran from the Gargoyle's curtain-covered display. Once out, they chattered frightfully amongst themselves. She wished she could at least see Henri's eyes, just to know that he was unharmed. Nearby, The Octopus Man was no longer in his cage, but on display in the alley, his handlers on guard. People approached Rafeál, who hanged his head with its beaten face in humiliation. Occasionally, they reached out to touch the extra appendages, squealing in disgust; he didn't react. Crowds of people continued to satisfy their curiosities as they ventured further down the alley.

It wasn't long before Vesoni's voice drifted over the noise to hawk his possession yet again:

"_The Devil took her voice away_

_For sins committed day by day;_

_In silent state, she shall remain_

_To bear the brunt of others' pain;_

_To be forgiven for her sins_

_One must unlock the voice within;_

_So step inside and take a chance_

_To release her from the demon's dance!" _

The drawing power of his words was impressive, based on the new groups of patrons shuffling their way. The girl drew even further into the corner.

"Gracious, she's filthy!" a woman yelled. "Why don't you speak, you little beast?"

"Yes, perhaps that's how you got yourself into this mess," another agreed.

It'd all been said before, and the girl did her best to ignore it. The eyes were still staring, though. She could sense them. Perhaps the Devil really _had_ cursed her. Not only had he taken her voice, but he'd also sent others to torture her. Had she sinned so badly that she deserved such punishment? Could it be true? Maybe she _was_ at fault for everything.

Maybe Vesconi was right about her.

Hours passed. The living nightmare remained along with black night sky. Crowds came and went as usual, offering no sympathy. Wiping egg from her shoulder, the girl glanced at those who humiliated her. Young and old, men and women, all kinds of individuals came to Forsaken Alley. None showed an ounce of pity for what they saw, nor for what they did to the helpless beings. After all, it _was_ their faults for winding up here. Hatred flared hot beneath her bruises and wounds. How she wished to take up one of those stones that had pelted her and heave it at one of their faces. See the blood flow over their skin for a change. That could be a satisfying sight.

Satisfying, yes, but Vesconi would be there to teach her a lesson afterwards. She shuddered involuntarily.

From within home, her narrowed eyes darted around, seeing the patrons gathered, of course, but also seeking those who stood in the shadows beyond. There were always some who stood back and simply watched. While she couldn't make out faces, she knew they were there. Torchlight made their eyes glitter, evidence of their presence. She met those eyes of those and hated them as much as everyone else. Caged animal that she was, she stared back at them, almost in a challenging fashion. She locked gazes with one of them. Fingers tightened around the bars in response.

That was fixed when a clump of manure hit her in the back of the head. The impact caused her forehead to smack against the bars. Laughter was deafening and she wanted to cry. Barely lifting herself, she met the glittering eyes of one of those hiding in the shadows. For a long while, she kept the eye contact steady. To the anonymous stranger, she conveyed not only her suffering, but also her humiliation and hatred of the world.

Understand, she silently ordered.

Those eyes didn't change, didn't move, and they certainly offered no help to the pathetic child.

Of course not, came her bitter reply. Why would you?

As she turned away, another apple hit her cheek. That hurt. She tasted blood in her mouth while she curled into herself amid the roaring hollers surrounding home.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

False dawn caused the crowds to dissipate at last. The girl heaved heavy breaths as her body coped with the pain of her wounds with a series of throbs and muscle tics. Blood still flowed from some of the shallow nicks on her face, but she paid no heed to it. Ears listened for any sound of Vesconi. There was the occasional jingle of coins as he scooped up the last of his earnings around home, and at times a great, hacking cough. The girl held her breath as she listened. Thankfully, he had nothing to say to her, and his steps grew faint as he walked away and left Forsaken Alley for the rest of the night.

She released her breath. Forcing open the eye that wasn't swollen shut, she peeked momentarily at Rafeál, who appeared to be unharmed. Not long after, a handler led Henri back out to his holding place. The only damage was the deep-set shame in both their faces. With her companions accounted for, she collapsed into an exhausted heap on the cage floor and let sweeping darkness consume her.

And sometime during the night, a heartbreakingly beautiful voice began to sing softly in her dreams.


	4. Chapter III

It was unusual to sleep soundly. Sleep was a luxury, something they'd all learned to live without if need be, and a time when wicked things could happen without warning. But the girl must have been sleeping so, for it was quite some time before Spanish words invaded her ears. She stirred. Only now were they beginning to wake her. Usually, his morning outbursts revealed suffering at the hands of handlers. This was different.

"…_El fantasma negro…fue aquí! El fantasma negro!" _

Rafeál was speaking insistently. She stirred again, listening closely. The words caused her breath to catch and her heart to skip several beats. These words were familiar. Peeling her uninjured eye open to piercing morning light, she saw him across the alley grasping his bars in restrained excitement.

"_El fantasma negro fue aquí! Muda, vino otra vez!" _His excitement heightened when he realized she was conscious. "_El fantasma negro, que esta siendo real, Muda! El fantasma negro!" _He continued to sputter.

Despite the aches she felt everywhere, she focused on one particular phrase: _fantasma negro. _It was a phrase she didn't need Henri to translate. Black ghost. Rafeál had repeated it often the past few weeks.

Raising her head, she looked to the larger man to find his eyes also alight. Simply seeing him confirmed the other's words. "True, Mute," he heaved. "Black ghost…returned…sang. We heard."

She knew. Dear God, she knew.

"Sang. Such…voice."

Yes, she agreed, it was. She'd heard it again while she slept, an occurrence in the darkest hours of night. Three or four times; that was how many times she'd heard. Just thinking about the voice made everything inside her chest suddenly clench. That voice…It was the most beautiful voice in the world. Even Henri and Rafeál were affected by the serenades, traces of tears evident on their cheeks. Not a dream, not a dream.

"Saw…ghost," Henri continued, "near…cage."

She sucked in a breath. It had been quite close this time, closer than it had been before. According to Henri, their visitor was aptly named, for all they ever saw was a black figure darting back and forth through the shadows of Forsaken Alley, then disappearing entirely. She was left with so many questions about this strange specter. Who was the black ghost? Why would it only come while she slept? Why didn't she open her eyes when it was here? Well, that one was easy to answer: the voice soothed her in a way that nothing else could. Indescribable comfort from the mere elicitation of music. How was this possible? While it didn't give her hope, it at least gave her…something to look forward to. A welcome distraction from the hell she faced every night. _Fantasma negro. _Black ghost. Haunting her in a way that made her yearn for more.

She wished she could have been awake to see it.

Grabbing the bars, she pulled herself upright, trying to ignore the horrendous aches in her small body. Rafeál continued on enthusiastically to his companions. Not all the words made sense to her, but the girl was content to listen. They filled her cold body with strange warmth, one that seemed to grow beneath her lungs and spread gently to her fingers and toes. She didn't know what caused this, but she questioned it not. It wasn't unpleasant.

And still, he went on and on, and she didn't care how long he spoke of it. She'd listen forever. Leaning against cold bars, thoughts dwelled on the voice from her dreams. Thinking: the only other escape from captivity and one she gladly surrendered to. She pondered on what forms the black ghost took, thought about what it might have looked like singing near home. Was it frightening to look at? Was it lovely? How long did it stay? No one knew. No matter, though. If the voice of the black ghost could elicit these responses from them, then it was completely wonderful. What a gift they had been given to hear such unmatched beauty. Would she ever see the one with this magnificent voice? Sighing, she relaxed as the Spaniard's account continued.

Come back to me, she pled hopelessly. Sing so I don't have to feel sad…

She didn't even realize when Rafeál's face fell. _"Ay, Muda…!"_He rasped.

Too late. The clang against her bars came fast, loud, the intensity ripping her from her thoughts and making her cower in fear.

"_Inutile verme! Dovrebbe per alimentare il tuo inutile nascondere ai lupi!" _Flooding her ears was a stream of Italian curses. Vesconi raised his cane, struck hard again. _"Out, Mute, out!"_ He screamed in rage.

The girl held her breath, hands gripping her head. This was not good. He had snapped in that frightening way of his, making him capable of terrible things. This usually happened when he didn't earn enough money the previous night.

And Mute would be punished for it.

"_Out, Mute, out now!"_ He repeatedly slammed the bars with his cane and shouted orders, even though he hadn't yet unlocked home.

She cringed at each sharp blow. God protect me, she thought out of habit more than faith.

Giving a great hacking cough, there was finally the clinking of keys fitting into the lock, and the creaking iron door opened. Too scared to wait, the girl scampered out, only to be kicked squarely in the gut. The action shattered everything into great white stars, all breath leaving her as pain blasted through already throbbing nerves.

"_Vi sono un inutile pezzo di merda!"_

Another kick intensified the pain. Then another. Another. He was hitting bruises and wounds that already existed while she writhed on the ground. She couldn't _breathe_.

"Squirm, squirm little worm!" He mockingly chanted as he kicked. Shielding herself proved to be useless and she prayed the beating wouldn't last much longer. All the while, he yelled demeaning phrases at her, words she didn't fully understand, but could pick up their meanings based on his tone. She choked silently when he clamped rough fingers around her throat and hauled her up to face him. His strength made her want to cry. Even if she could, the vice-like fingers would have cut off any sound before it escaped her lips. Tears squeezed free, but she didn't cry. Not yet. She was too frightened and in too much pain to cry. Her eyes were carefully averted, tightly closed as he held her mere inches from his wicked face. Hot breaths huffed against her cheek. She wouldn't look. She couldn't. Unspeakable horrors awaited her if she did.

Don't look at him, don't look at him…It was her well-practiced mantra for times like this. Don't look at him, don't look at him, don't look…

Vesconi stared hard at the miserable little thing he stooped over. It was as if he wanted to burn fire straight through her with his gaze. The acrid stench of wine was great, no doubt had turned his eyes crimson. There was also the stale odor of cigarettes emanating from his clothes. It was as overwhelming as the anger radiating against her skin. So, so hot…

"My purse not as full today," he hissed_._ "You think it funny, Mute?"

No, she thought quickly.

He shook her, making the stinging in her head worse. "You think it funny? You think it so? Huh?" It was almost ludicrous; did he actually expect her to answer him after all this time? She didn't make a move, lest she be further punished. "It no good when purse is not full!"

I know. She still kept her eyes shut.

"I cannot have bad _denaro_ from Mute. _Polpo_ and ugly man brought in profit, but you not perform to your standards. This unacceptable." Through the gag-inducing air around him, all she thought about was what lay hidden beneath his jacket, and how close she was to it. Sheer terror consumed her as she remembered the long black whip he regarded as his favorite toy, and her body reacted by quaking uncontrollably. Scars of the past screamed beneath her skin, causing her mouth to fall open in an unheard wail of fear.

But he made no move to retrieve the whip. Instead, the hand holding her tightened even more, her mouth falling open wider with the need for air. "I expect better from what belong to me." With that, he struck her hard enough to knock her to the ground, where she landed limply with a reddening cheek. Heaving shoulders aided her in drawing in heavy, filling breaths. God, she wondered how long it would take to breathe normally! There was no movement other than that, coughing as she sucked in an occasional puff of dust. Where she fell was where she remained, attempting to not incite her captor further.

Vesconi moved to the edge of the alley, coughing hard. "You bring this on yourself," he harshly whispered. This was the only time she stole a brief glance at him, so long as he wasn't able to see. Staring off into the distance as he rolled a fresh cigarette, he seemed to be standing quite tall. Quite _proud_. Somehow, she wasn't at all surprised by this. "All of you," she closed her eyes when he started talking again, "bring misery on yourselves." There was such conviction in his voice; he truly _meant _that their punishments were their faults and, as such, warranted. What was more fitting than to give them what they deserved? Coughing again, the tall man eventually stumbled away to sleep off his temper, muttering to himself with each step.

And the girl stayed where she was, beaten, bruised, pathetic. The atmosphere had become much quieter, which gave her minimal comfort.

"Mute?" It was Henri.

She ignored him.

"Mute?"

No.

When she'd regained her breath, the girl clutched her tender stomach and crawled stiffly back home, retreating to the far corner yet again. She didn't look across the alley to the others. Yes, Rafeál and Henri were trying to get her attention, eager to see if she was alright, but she didn't have the strength to look them in the eye. She wasn't alright, and they didn't need to see her that way. Home, a poor excuse for a safe haven, was where she needed to be. Hurt pounded ferociously and left her feeling weak. Tears still fell, and she did not stop them. The after-effects from the strike hadn't faded, and it would hurt to wipe tears from her cheek.

"Mute," Henri tried again.

No, she thought, curling onto the cage floor. I can't. A day that had started with pleasing news had, in mere minutes, turned into something that reminded her of the nightmare that was life.

"Mute?"

Just leave me alone! She yelled in her head. Don't make me look at you. Please…

"Mute."

"_Muda?"_

The concern in their voices broke her heart, doubling her agony. She needed to cry and did so with her back turned to them. They worried about her more than she deserved, and it was enough that they saw the abuse she had to endure every day.

"Mute?"

Sighing heavily, the mute girl surrendered to the pent up tears and wept in silence.


	5. Chapter IV

The Gypsies had grown restless in Orléans. Theirs was not a life meant to be rooted in permanent settlements, but one of everlasting change. Like the seasons, they never lingered in one spot forever and knew when it was time to move on. Their souls longed for adventures and new possibilities, which was why the caravan was out on the road once again, seeking the next profitable location for their fair.

The move was particularly disappointing for Mute, for the trio had heard the black ghost yet again the previous night. Even now, haunting melodies ensnared her mind, her head dancing with those distant songs. Reliving the memories was one way to deal with the heartache of being alone…

A large bump in the road jarred the horse-drawn prison cart, jolting Mute out of thought. It was typical while riding through rural areas. Behind her, Rafeál grunted. Whenever they traveled, the Forsaken group was crammed into Vesconi's cart. Though it was cramped and Henri could never sit comfortably, it didn't occur to any of them to mind the close quarters. At least they were together. A layer of sweat covered their bodies, and she brought a hand to wipe her forehead. The thick cloth covering the barred door trapped them in darkness and sweltering heat. But it shielded the occupants from prying eyes. Vesconi never wanted anyone to see his treasures until carnival time. Nights could get cold, but this was almost worse.

Letting out a pitiful moan, Henri collapsed against the far wall. Without hesitation, the girl uncoiled aching legs and scooted to him, cupping his drenched face to blow gently on it. The cooling affect took time, but then he opened his eyes.

"Thank…you," he wheezed.

Mute peeled back the cloth on the door to welcome cool air and sunlight. She breathed in deeply, a refreshing sensation compared to stifling heat. Henri and Rafeál gave heavy sighs of relief.

Knees drawn to her chin, Mute watched the outside world slowly creep by. Green, she sighed. Green was the color of the outside world, and she was captivated by its calming effect. What a change from bright swirling colors of the carnival, meant to entice the eyes and imagination. Such color clashes were loud, more than suffocating at times. But green…green was different. Instead of attracting attention, it waited patiently, wanting to be seen only by those who would appreciate it. Mute preferred green. And so many things out here were green: trees, grasses, shrubs, any assortment of plant life. But her eyes focused on those trees in the distance. Endless reaches of nature's towers lining the French countryside. She inhaled deeply, the taste of pine and wood almost dancing on her tongue. The air was full of this flavor. Long ago, she'd gained an appreciation for trees and couldn't explain why, but something about seeing them was soothing. Being so close on travels was a dramatic change from what she knew. Yes, nature in daylight was pleasing to the senses.

Nights didn't take away from its splendor, either. When the caravan stopped to rest, Mute would gaze at the stars for hours and hours, letting thoughts of another time and the black ghost's angelic singing sweep through her. A secret escape no one else was privy to. Outside the carnival, night was not full of the wickedness she'd come to expect. During nights was nature's music. Crickets chirped louder than ever, wolves howled in the distance, owls hooted, wind blew gently to rattle leaves, drops of rain fell steadily upon grass.

And then another kind of music—unrelated to nature—drifted into her ears. Not singing, but a kind she'd grown fond of over the years. Faint notes from a violin. Around bonfires, the Gypsies shared their festive music, and Mute would listen. God, she would listen to it forever if given the chance! Some of them played violin and played it quite well. Sounds the violin made…They resonated so deeply with her, making her mind and heart dance together. When played to patrons of the fair, they could be eerie, sinister, and hypnotic in ways that frightened one to the very core. But if played the right way, the way she adored, they could tell stories. Adventures, tragedies, triumphs, romances, they were all told with each stroke of their bows. From the stretching of long notes to the staccato beat of strings being plucked, they told countless tales, could be such sounds of longing, compelling her to reach out and grab notes as they floated by on the wind. Bravo to the Gypsies for finding a way to touch her heart.

And when daylight returned, green dominated once more. Never mind the barrage of activities going on around them: Gypsy sons and daughters running about behind the wagons in play, joined at times by children from passing villages; dogs barking and trotting obediently at their masters' heels; various villagers approaching curiously to see what wonders were being transported; travelers on horseback riding behind the line. None of it was uncommon to see on the road, especially those on horseback. The carnival had its fair share of devotees following them from city to city, and it wouldn't surprise her if some had spent years following. It was the same thing she saw time after time, and her initial fascination had long since faded. But fascination would never pass for all things good and green.

Sighing again, she laid her head against rusty bars. In the distance, a flicker in the green caught her attention. A rider on a black horse navigated through the trees as he followed along. Another carnival fan, no doubt. Half-heartedly, she thought she'd seen this horse following them before, always keeping pace with them, always concealed in the green. Maybe; maybe not. There were instances when sunlight gleamed off its coat, showing her how silky and soft it might feel. Her eyebrows rose. Beautiful horse. Distance couldn't disguise that fact.

A wave of tiredness washed through her. Shutting her eyes, she allowed herself to be content with the sights and smells of nature that surrounded her as the cart continued down the road. The last image in her mind was light shining on the sleek muscles of the black horse.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Tears of humiliation refused to be held back. Rafeál cradled Mute far inside the cart, doing his best to comfort the terrified child. Her hair had been crudely cut off. A punishment; a lesson to be learned. Little hands covered her dirty face in shame.

During a stop, Vesconi had sent Mute to fetch a pail of water from the nearby river. Unfortunately, the outcome had not been in her favor. You shouldn't have let it happen, she scolded herself, recalling the moment the pail flew from her hands. You should have seen that root; you should have seen you were about to trip! Idiot! Why didn't you see? _Why? _The accident had sent Vesconi into another drunken rage. She remembered the look in his eyes when he seized her, that look of pure red fury burning straight through her. Oh, the terror that had consumed her! She was going to die, was certain of it…The knife came close to severing more than her hair, blood trailing from her scalp as a reminder of what almost was.

Useless as his efforts might have been, Rafeál didn't relent. His arm was wrapped around her as he spoke reassuringly in his language. Henri, whose sad eyes watched her over the Spaniard's shoulder, tried to embrace their embrace with his uneven limbs. They quickly learned not to touch her head, lest she flinch severely at the potential threat.

Silent sorrow couldn't be consoled in Rafeál's strong arm. Vesconi's reaction was predictable, but frightening nonetheless. Ugly. That's what she was. Not in the way that others perceived Henri and Rafeál, but uglier than she had been before. He'd made her so _ugly_ in mere seconds. As if it wasn't enough for patrons to sneer at her filthiness, now they'd sneer at her boyish appearance.

She gave a choked cough as more tears fell down her face, Rafeál tightening his hold reflexively.

She held her breath. Touch. Such a foreign concept and something she typically recoiled from. Touch made her fearful. She did not know touch that was friendly. Touch was pain. Touch was dark. Those who tormented her at the carnival touched her in ways that made her heart scream and fire burn in her chest. None of it was acceptable, and something deep inside her knew it. Never did she want to be touched. She couldn't stand it.

The only exceptions were the men soothing her, and even they struggled to gain her trust. Trust was not an option. Sadly, the same went for them…until she realized who they were when they held her. Had it been anyone else…

No, she shut the thought out. Stop. She refused to think of it.

"_Es niña importante,"_ Rafeál said softly in her ear. _"Es verdad."_

Henri took a deep breath and uttered, "Yes."

Whatever they said, she didn't listen, for Mute wasn't there anymore. Behind her hands, beneath the wounded, bleeding skin, she had retreated to the deepest, darkest depths of her mind, fled to a place where none could follow. Not Vesconi, not the Gypsies, not the riders trailing them to the next town, not the men cradling her like a pitiful animal. Only her. Delving further and further into the vast quiet, her pulse slowed, her breathing calmed, and wicked thoughts faded into nothingness. Here, there existed only Mute. Those who didn't belong were locked out, never to bring her harm if she didn't allow it. Her sanctuary. Mute would be safe as long as she pushed everyone else away and held her fragile heart within her own hands.

So far away were her thoughts that she didn't realize when Rafeál began to rock her gently. Though there was only Mute in her mind, thoughts betrayed her as one dim desire emerged from the engulfing darkness: how she longed—even in this moment of despair—to hear the voice of the black ghost...

Nothing could have prepared her for what she would encounter in the coming days.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

_~Tours, France~_

Blessedly, the crowds thinned as the hour grew late, allowing the three to rest and scavenge for what food they could reach. Her companions ate without speaking, chains occasionally tinkering with their movements.

After nibbling on a few pieces of popcorn, Mute sat back and traced the scars on her arms. There were many of them, crisscrossing over each other. Old ones were pale white, smooth to the touch, raised above the rest of her skin; fresh red ones sent shooting pains through her when she touched them. Blood oozed from a few, prompting her to seal them with dirt. Eventually, they would fade and join her ever-growing collection, reminders of what she faced night after night, year after long year. Closing her eyes, her mind resurrected the last few hours with great clarity…

_Fire. Light. Noise. The loudness of it all filling her senses until she thought she would burst. _

_ Hawking. Yells. Screams. Vicious cycles began anew, no matter where the roads led them. _

_Excitement. Intrigue. Mystery. Gripping her skull, Mute longed for the pounding in her head to stop. _

_When she hit the floor of home, the ensuing laughter was equally painful. Feeling the world spin, she looked around at the delighted smiles, hating every single one of them without a second thought. In the shadows beyond, eyes glittered with similar scorn, and some simply stared without emotion. _

_How she wished to hurt them all… _

Opening her eyes, she was met once again by scars. Sighing, she continued to run her hands lightly over the marks in the quieting night.

But not everyone had left the trio to their solitude. The girl was unaware that a shape had grown somewhere in the shadows behind her. A dark shape…coming closer…creeping so silently…approaching home without warning…

Four sharp words cut the silence: "Tell me your name."

Mute snapped her head around, her entire face ablaze with fury. Somehow, she immediately locked eyes with the hiding figure._ You!_ Came the accusatory thought as she stared contemptuously. He'd visited before, in their previous location, saying those same firm words to her, and she _despised_ him for it!

Henri and Rafeál had also heard and searched the shadows wildly, unable to find his outline in the dark. They were yelling at him, no doubt an attempt to deter him from the child. Mute just continued to stare at him, her increasing anger drowning out their anxious voices as her ears grew hot. Tell you my name? Mockery from the crowds was nothing compared to this insult. Tell you my name? _Tell_ _you my name_? As she repeated this to herself, her eyes became hooded while her lips twisted into an animalistic sneer. How dare he make such a demand of her? What cruel game was he playing at?

No!

In a quick movement, she sought the corner of home, turning her back on him defiantly as she grasped the bars tightly and made herself as small as possible. There she remained, curling her head down into her chest, ignoring the eyes that bore hard into her backside. Time to shut out the horrible world again.

Leave me, she willed to him. Go away.

It was as though he'd heard her thoughts. "Very well."

She didn't care about his irritated tone. The fading sound of his footsteps as he stalked away was a great relief. When she knew he was gone, she pressed her head against the bars and let tears fall. Despite how angry she'd been a few minutes ago, and how satisfying it would have been to claw his eyes out, she couldn't deny how terrified she'd been by his presence. What would stop him from returning the next time the fair moved? What would happen if he came when she was left alone? What was this man capable of doing to her?

On top of that, something about his voice frightened her. It wasn't the irate tone, but the strength evident in only the few words he spoke. The unbelievable strength! When he'd spoken, part of her _wanted_ to obey, felt as though she was being drawn to him. It scared her. What did it mean? She shuddered uncontrollably.

Somewhere in the background, her companions asked questions and raised concerns over what had happened.

"No…gone," Henri had answered.

"_Muda, estás bien?"_

She didn't move. The girl wouldn't respond anymore tonight, and they both knew it. They would keep vigil the rest of the night to assure themselves that the intruder was, indeed, gone.


End file.
